On the roadside,
among the teasel,The fleabanes and
spiderwort,Pushing up through
debris --Bindweeds and morning-glory,
amongCrushed aluminum
and shards of glass --Neighbor to the black
ant, theRed ant, the mockingbird;Atop the ox-eye daisyOr beneath pokeweed
and mallow;Among the chickweeds
andPartner to the sun,
all around theseI am roving, I, young,
yet a stranger to theMusty shadows of
libraries, learn ofAn inexpressible
love of ruined places.It is faded paper
cups, sun painted oil onAsphalt, and even
the stray tragedy ofAn animal corpse.
Every human voice
within meSpeaks against it:
These are weeds, thisIs death, and the
living death that
bankrupts life.But the black-eyed-Susan,
the dandelion,The bees, even the
sunwarmed, radiantAsphalt have beguiled
me into thinkingSurely this, too,
is heaven?

For the last time
let's gird up the knight:The shinning armor,
sharp sword and shield,Helm and visor; lead
the chargerToward battle, to
tilt with the dragon that isNot woman but the
myth of woman,Once more, and finally,
to slay the manyLiv'd beast, and
let the woman come outAs she may, at least
no longer mythy.

Draw thy sword and
swing as you pass, warrior!Yet, no? Do you dare
tempt the wrath of the beast?Stay -- surely that
shining hair that spills outThy helm belongs
to no man. Then at your ownCommand, warrior!I
am no sovereign here. ThySelf is sovereign
and beholden to none, not evenTo a poet. At this
pass, perhaps she will ... yetAs she may. What?
Dismounted? Oh, woman,What is thy game?
I am overmastered here -- IMust hold my tongue,
or write of men and dogs.